


And Palm to Palm is Holy Palmers' Kiss

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also probably asexual, And completely innocent (yeah right), Don't ask me (whistles innocently)., He does not succeed, Hopeless pining, How on earth are they going to make this work?, In which Javert is sexually frustrated, Javert abuses Shakespearean poetry, Javert is bad at flirting, Javert tries to be in denial, M/M, Madeleine is blissfully oblivious, One-sided UST, Shakespeare doesn't mind, The line between lust and love blurs too easily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saints do not have sex.  Monsieur le Maire is a saint.  Therefore, Monsieur le Maire does not have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Javert Began His Descent Into Madness

**Author's Note:**

> I should warn you, shouldn't I? This probably reads like a bad romance novel. So, beware.

_Saints, as a rule, do not engage in sexual intercourse. So much has been ascertained through Christian mythology. Monsieur le Maire is a saint. Ergo, Monsieur le Maire does not engage in sexual intercourse._

_Damned syllogisms_ , Javert thought bitterly. He tried to find a false premise that would render the conclusion untrue. He failed.

This knowledge settled heavily in Javert’s stomach as he approached the mayor’s office to make his usual report on the town’s criminal matters. What had originated by Monsieur le Maire’s request as only a monthly report had become bi-weekly under Javert’s insistence that the good mayor needed to be updated more often lest he be caught unawares by any adverse situation, and Madeleine had agreed. When Javert showed up once a week to give his report, neither man said anything.

It was only through the exercise of an enormous strength of will that Javert managed to stop himself from appearing daily in the mayor’s office.

He knocked on the door with some amount of trepidation.

“Come in,” a warm voice called out. It was a voice that haunted his dreams and his less guarded waking moments. It was a voice against which he was helpless but to obey.

The mayor glanced up from his desk. A faint smile announced his pleasure at the sight of his visitor.

“Ah, Javert! I see that you are early today.”

Javert tensed, fearing that the mayor would demand an explanation for his untimely arrival, mentally berating himself for finishing his work too quickly and walking too fast.

But the mayor merely continued with his habitual pleasantness, “Please, sit down and help yourself to some biscuits while I finish with this bit of business.”

Javert did. The biscuit tasted too sweet, like a forbidden joy.

It was winter, and the walls were not thick enough to keep out the chill. The mayor’s hands were wrapped in supple leather gloves that did not hinder their flexibility while protecting them from the frost.

“O, that I were a glove upon that hand…”

The mayor shot him a quizzical glance. “Hmm, what’s that, Inspector?”

“No—nothing, Monsieur. A silly story I read last night, is all. It’s about—no. It’s about nothing. It was stupid.”

“A silly story about nothing, eh? Perhaps you will find, my dear Inspector, that nothing may prove to be the most enjoyable of all things.”

He scarcely heard the words, so busy was he being distracted by the lips from which they emerged. He wished that the mayor would not throw phrases like “my dear” around so casually, that he might believe they actually meant something when applied to him.

“Perhaps…perhaps.”

If the mayor took note of his obvious distraction, he did not remark upon it. Soon he put down his quill and leaned back in his seat, and Javert began his report.

Monsieur le Maire was an excellent audience. Unless some truly pressing matter weighted upon his mind, he devoted his entire self to the speaker and made them feel as if they alone were his entire world. It was such an attitude that persuaded the townspeople to come forward to him with their troubles and concerns, that made him a much-beloved mayor. Therefore, his attentiveness was not something directed only towards Javert. Javert found the need to remind himself of this multiple times, lest his hopes grow too high.

Though his reports had become more frequent, it also seemed that he had more to say in each, despite the slowly declining rate of crime in Montreuil-sur-Mer. He attributed this oddity to his desire for thoroughness. He will not fail in his duties to the mayor by leaving the man ill-informed due to his lack of attention to detail.

By the time he finished, the skies outside the window were very dark. Perhaps having all of the mayor’s attention on himself was too sweet an addiction.

Nevertheless, it was one he must quit. He had been keeping the man away from his supper and a warm bed.

He quickly steered his thoughts away from beds.

They bid each other farewell and goodnight at the door. Just as the mayor was about to turn away, Javert found his hand grasping the man’s forearm without any memory of how. He released it on the instant as if he held in his grips not flesh, but molten lava. Or precious diamonds that he was too afraid of damaging with his carelessness.

“Javert?”

“I—” he wrecked his brain for an excuse. “I only ask that you be very careful on your way home, Monsieur.”

A concerned frown marred that almost marble-like forehead. “May I ask why, Inspector?”

“Even under your guidance, Monsieur, criminal elements still thrive in this town. Other men might find themselves jealous of your financial and political success and…ah, your native endowments. Men can often be petty. You would do well to be wary of them, Monsieur le Maire.”

“If you are so concerned for my wellbeing, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, why don’t you accompany me? I am certain that with you by my side, no harm could befall my person.”

Javert tried very hard not to dwell on the mayor’s person. He convinced himself that protecting his superior was part of his duties as police inspector, and he would be acting in the public interest to accept.

“As you will, Monsieur le Maire.”

He dared not speak his name, not even in his own mind. It would give too much away, he feared. Ma-de-leine. The sounds burned like liquid fire in his dreams. He cherished them like something sacred. Sacred, and unattainable but in dreams.


	2. In Which Javert Was Irrevocably Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Comes out of hiding. Glances around. Sees no one. Throws up chapter. Runs away.*

Despite the late hour, men and women alike flitted about the streets, some hurrying home from work, others just beginning to earn their daily bread. Javert kept a sharp eye on all, especially those whom he perceived to operate under the cover of night. Most, even the honest citizens, avoided his gaze, though they dared to dart smiles at the mayor by his side. This irritated Javert for an entirely different reason than their possible criminality, and his displeased scowl only deepened when he saw the mayor smile back.

A few young children still lingered out in the cold, no doubt against their parents’ wishes, frolicking in the snow without a care in the world. They greeted the mayor with wide, cheerful grins and called him _Père Madeleine_ , and the smile that blossomed on his face at their innocent greetings was the most genuine of all. The warmth of his countenance touched all around him and rendered the chill of the evening air inconsequential.

Javert closed his eyes to that smile for fear that he would be blinded, or be lost forever.

All too soon, they arrived at the mayor’s door. The inspector began steeling himself for the inevitable farewell, a task he found increasingly difficult the longer he spent in the mayor’s company. To his surprise, it was not dismissal but an invitation that reached his ears.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Maire?”

The mayor’s voice gave no indication of anything other than absolute sincerity, not even the merest hint of impatience at being forced to repeat himself. “Would you like to join me for supper, Javert?”

“I…” Javert was floored, not knowing how to respond. No such invitation had ever been extended to him, much less by a superior whom he greatly admired. As always during times of shifting uncertainty, he fell back on the rigid familiarity of rules, customs, and norms. “That would not be proper, Monsieur. A magistrate like yourself should not take your meals with a humble police inspector.”

“Javert…” The mayor sighed, and Javert found himself regarded with some fond amusement that he did not understand. “Nevertheless, I insist. Will you deny me such a simple request?”

 _I will deny you nothing, Monsieur_ , was what he thought but dared not say. Instead, he answered as was appropriate for one of his station when faced with a demand from a superior.

“As you will, Monsieur le Maire.”

~ * ~

The mayor’s table was simple, but well appointed. Though it was his habit to dine alone, he had instructed his housekeeper to always prepare more in the not unusual case that he should be visited by one in need, for his charity was known throughout Montreuil-sur-Mer. He did not relish his fame in this respect. Charity should never be worn as an ostentatious cloak to garner honour and gratitude, but should rather remain covert and secret, even to oneself. Yet the assurance of his assistance and not scorn did cause more unfortunate souls to be willing to seek him out for help, thus he tolerated his reputation with some measure of good humour. On the evenings when none knocked on his door, the leftovers were not thrown away according to the practices of the bourgeoisie; instead, he had his housekeeper bring them to the house of refuge for the poor who resided there. The mayor, despite his ever-growing wealth, was a man who did not believe in wastefulness of any kind. He cherished food with a sort of reverence that was only shown by those raised in extreme poverty, those deprived of basic sustenance for most of their lives and never knew when their next meal would arrive, or that it should arrive at all. His philosophy was austerity and thrift, at least in regards to himself. He ate only black bread, but offered his guests white.

Inspector Javert, naturally, declined the offer. It was already the height of impropriety to sit at the mayor’s table, and it would be absolutely unthinkable to partake of better fare than the mayor himself enjoyed. He did not give in to the mayor’s insistence this time. With a huff of breath that could almost be construed as an admonition if not for the gentle crinkling around his eyes, the venerable gentleman picked up a piece of fine white bread; Javert followed suit.

He tried to keep his mouth filled at all times to free himself from the obligation of casual conversation, which would no doubt be beyond awkward, yet took care to never eat faster than his host. Even in this, Inspector Javert strived to be above reproach.

The mayor, perhaps for once sensing his desire and respecting his wishes, did not attempt to initiate meaningless small talk.

The atmosphere was surprisingly comfortable, and Javert soon found himself relaxing almost against his will. Such was the effect of Monsieur le Maire’s presence.

“The broth is very good, Monsieur.” Javert offered the meal his compliments, for he believed that to be the duty of a polite guest. To the cook’s credit, this was not a lie.

The mayor appeared very much pleased at his words, which almost made Javert consider that even a lie would have been worth it. He ruthlessly squashed this line of thought that threatened to lead to the compromise of his integrity and his principles.

“Thank you, Inspector. I will convey your words to my portress, and I am sure she would be delighted.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Javert muttered under his breath, too low for the good mayor to hear. No one would find a compliment from the fearsome inspector a cause for delight. A much more likely response would be uncertainty and loss of sleep due to excessive pondering on whether or not the inspector was keeping his eyes on them and suspecting them of illegal activities. Such was the sad state of affairs in this society that the attention of the police, whether positive or negative, was never welcomed. The policemen of France were a miserable lot. They were useful, but mistrusted. Tolerated, but kept at arm’s length. They were as much outcasts of the society they guarded as the criminals that they hunted. Javert was the epitome of the police.

The only man who not only seemed to trust him but to take actual pleasure in his company was the mayor himself. Inspector Javert may have scorned human attachments with all his wooden heart, yet he was still but a man. He was neither beast nor god. He could not deny the warmth or joy that flooded his being whenever the mayor smiled at him, that overwhelmed his defenses and washed away his suspicions. He could, however, deny his own urge to smile back.

He will maintain that last shred of his dignity, at least.

It was the dignity of a fool, perhaps, for men in love were fools. Inspector Javert was not ready to admit that to himself yet.

The meal was soon ended, and once again the time of parting was upon them. Javert knew that he should courteously thank the mayor for a wonderful supper and be on his way, but the words refused to leave his mouth.

“Will you join me in the library for a glass of wine, Inspector?”

Javert accepted.

~ * ~

The library was not large, but modest and tasteful. The volumes on the shelves showed obvious signs of having been read, yet also evident was the careful handling they received at the hands of a gentle owner. This, then, was the library of one who truly loved to read and cherished books. Javert had, in the course of his investigations, been in libraries that were enormous and opulent, filled wall to wall with antique tomes and popular philosophy in a myriad of languages. A careful eye could easily discern that they have seldom been touched except by a maid who perhaps cleared away the dust once in a while, to keep the library presentable to guests. Those libraries held more pretension than use. Affectation, unfortunately, was a disease to which the bourgeoisie and the nobility seemed particularly susceptible.

His opinion of the mayor raised another notch.

They seated themselves before a small fireplace, plain as the rest of the mayor’s humble dwelling, sharing a bottle of aged red wine. Javert was fairly certain that the wine would never have been opened were it not for his presence here. He did not entirely know what to think of the mayor’s frugality in his personal life, which stood in such stark contrast to what Javert often considered his immoderate generosity and kindness towards others.

The mayor offered him free selection of his books. He declined.

The mayor then offered to read the bible to him. He pursed his lips, but nodded mutely.

A soft, lilting voice soon became the only thing in his world. Monsieur le Maire had opted to start from the Genesis, but for all Javert cared, he could have been reading the bible backwards.

Though the words of the Lord entered his ears, his thoughts were far from pure. He knew that he should not be so affected by a simple voice, and in truth, there was nothing quite so remarkable about that voice beyond its ability to soothe and coax even the most timid animals out of hiding. If that voice had belonged to any other man, Javert would have paid it little mind. But it belonged to Monsieur le Maire. It belonged to Monsieur Madeleine.

Javert was lost in that voice.

To his horror, he felt his trousers growing tight; each syllable uttered by the mayor was a caress against his sensitive flesh, each word weaving another thread around his captive soul. His eyes closed. He soaked in that heavenly voice, and surrendered himself to Madeleine’s power.

A sigh escaped Javert’s lips without his permission, causing the mayor to pause. He looked up from the verse he had been reading, and for one petrifying moment, Javert was certain that the mayor would realize the extent of his depravity and throw him out the door, banning him forever from his presence.

“Inspector Javert, are you quite alright? You appear uncommonly flushed.” All this was delivered in a tone of innocent concern.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought savagely, _the mayor does not even know what an erection is, let along what one looks like._

As it was, Monsieur le Maire’s eyes never strayed lower than his waist.

But he had already indulged himself too much tonight. His brief panic had caused adrenaline to race through his veins, clearing his mind. Resolutely, he said his farewells and made to stand.

The mayor’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Will you stay the night?”

Javert’s heart stopped.

“Your home is some distance away. The hour is very late, and we would not want our most devoted servant of the law to be asleep on the job tomorrow.” The smile the mayor graced him with was half-teasing, half-serious. “I keep a guest bedroom that is warm and comfortable enough. If you find it sufficient, I implore you to rest here for the night.”

Of course. That’s all he had meant, nothing more. He was an imbecile to have even imagined there might be more.

 _Turn away, you bloody great fool!_ Javert cursed himself to the high heavens even as his lips formed the words, “As you will, Monsieur le Maire.”


	3. In Which Javert Understood the Futility of Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry, mes ami(e)s. I promise to update more frequently from now on. I hope. Please forgive me.

Javert awoke with a rare sense of satisfaction and a desire to remain in bed for longer than was wise, a desire that was completely foreign to him whose duty was his religion. He had slept surprisingly well, considering his distress at having accepted the mayor’s infernal invitation. Yet the room exuded welcome—no doubt Monsieur le Maire had gone to great lengths to create such an air in his guest bedroom, knowing the man and his penchant for charity—and he had fallen asleep gazing at the painting of mesmerizing waves overlapping and in perpetual motion hanging on the opposing wall.

The only incident during the night—if it could even be called thus—was a strange and curious dream. Javert rarely dreamed. When he did, it would be more correct to term those dreams nightmares, and he had always understood them. He was a man who understood suffering.

This dream, however, he could make no sense of.

Javert had never been a religious man. He respected the church for the authority it wielded, and that was all. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, his sleep had been visited by the tale of Marie Madeleine, the sinner who repented of her sins, and who was absolved by Christ himself. The mercy on Christ’s face bore a startling resemblance to Monsieur le Maire, who shared the name of the sinner. He did not know what his subconscious mind wished to tell him.

He attributed this oddity to the mayor’s recitations of the bible last night which he did not hear, and paid it no more mind.

Despite the vaguely disquieting dream, his slumber had been restful. Much more so than it would have been in his own room, which was simple, cold, and bare. He did not believe in wasting money on such frivolities as firewood or decorations.

A frightful realization rose within him then. Perhaps it was not accident and carelessness, or even his own foolish heart that had caused him to remain so late at the mayor’s home. Perhaps it was all a carefully orchestrated ploy by the mayor to force his unwanted charity upon him. His pride recoiled, and he deftly severed this line of thought.

It was not only his pride that was injured. He found that his heart could not withstand the pain of the mere possibility that he was nothing more than another charity case to the mayor.

He did not want to know what this may imply.

~ * ~

They broke their fast in silence. The mayor, considerate man that he was, did not inquire after Javert’s reticence, perhaps assuming it to be nothing more than his usual taciturn disposition. Javert tried not to read too much into the way the mayor’s eyes had scanned his form when he exited the guest bedroom, no doubt trying to ascertain the quality of his repose.

Afterwards, he politely thanked the mayor for his hospitality and made to leave for work.

It was the mayor himself who retrieved his greatcoat at the door. It was the mayor who stood patiently waiting, holding the coat in both hands, while Javert froze in shock.

 _Surely the man cannot mean to dress him?_ Javert knew the mayor cared little for conventional propriety, but this still beggared belief.

It was widely known that the mayor considered himself a servant to all men. Javert never took that rumour literally.

When it became clear that the mayor would be willing to stand there all day if Javert did not acquiesce to his service, Javert sighed and gave in to a will more stubborn than his own. He allowed the mayor to help him into the heavy greatcoat, to do up each button with excessive care, all the while desperately ignoring the physical reactions this unsought proximity had inspired in him, or the twisting and fluttering of his traitorous heart.

At last the torture was over. The mayor bade him farewell.

It was with hurried steps that Javert left the mayor’s house, his haste strangely like escape.

None had ever told him of the futility in trying to escape from himself.

~ * ~

Every city and every town, from the shining capital Paris to the newly developing Montreuil-sur-Mer, had its gutters. Prosperity, or even moderate good fortune, had never been universal. The wealth of some must come at the deprivation of others. Such conditions persisted despite the mayor’s numerous attempts to alter this law of human society.

Montreuil’s gutters were filled with the poor and wretched, thieves and drunkards and prostitutes, men and women who scorned the mayor’s generosity and kindness, who refused to earn an honest living despite the relative ease to do so in Montreuil than in most other cities of France. The mayor’s ever-expanding factory accepted all who were honest, willing, and of good character. Not a high requirement, in Javert’s opinion, yet obviously too much to expect from those who delighted in rolling in the muck of depravity and sin.

It was Javert’s self-appointed duty to patrol said gutters on certain nights. He accomplished this task without complaint, his distaste at its inhabitants warring with his satisfaction at causing those very inhabitants to scatter and scamper before his formidable figure. He enjoyed—as much as he permitted himself to enjoy anything—keeping order in the part of town which needed it most.

Tonight was one such night. Everything was proceeding as usual, until his sharp eyes spotted a familiar profile which by all reason and logic should have stayed as far from this place as possible.

Javert really should not have been so astonished to see the mayor in this particular corner of Montreuil-sur-Mer. He ought to be more surprised that he had not encountered the mayor in his patrols before. Yet that did not stop the flare of concern and annoyance he felt at the mayor’s blatant disregard for social norms, and worse, his personal safety.

He approached the mayor before his mind could advise against it.

“Monsieur le Maire, you should not be here.” Only belatedly did he realize that he had given what almost amounted to a command to his superior, and just barely suppressed a wince at the mistake. Before he could apologize, the mayor had already responded.

“And why, pray tell, not, Javert?” He sounded genuinely confused. And not at all surprised to see Javert.

At least it did not appear that he had taken offence, Javert noted with relief.

It was with some effort that he forced his tone to be more respectful. “It is not proper, Monsieur, for a man of your standing to walk amongst such filth. This is no place for one such as you.”

At his words, the mayor turned melancholy, seemingly lost in thought. “I was of their lot, once.”

Javert did not know if he was meant to have heard the whispered words, or if the mayor even meant to have spoken them. He shifted slightly, uncomfortable at this strangely intimate confession. He chose to pretend deafness.

“Begging your pardon, Monsieur le Maire, it would be best if you do not present the scum that dwells here the temptation of your purse.”

His words roused the mayor out of his reverie. The mayor bestowed upon Javert that damnable, charming smile of his.

“My purse is open to whoever has need of it, my friend.”

Javert cursed under his breath. The mayor was more amused than insulted.

Javert could not be blamed for the long-suffering sigh that emerged from his throat. “Monsieur…” He did not know what to say that might possibly cause the mayor to change his mind.

The mayor appeared to take pity on him, but his assent to leave was not unconditional.

“Escort me home, Javert?”

Javert closed his eyes. He could already predict that this would no doubt be followed by a supper invitation that he would be likewise unable to refuse, and perhaps even the offer of the warm, welcoming guest bedroom. It was becoming harder and harder to delude himself that this was not merely the manifestation of the mayor’s accursed charity. Yet in spite of the bitter knowledge, his desire to spend more time with the mayor easily overrode the screeching protests of his pride and dignity both, and it was with the weariness of utter resignation and surrender that he breathed the damning words,

“As you will, Monsieur le Maire.”

His senses filled with the mayor’s enthralling presence, Javert was not conscious of the pair of eyes upon them, which noted and catalogued their every movement.

The owner of the eyes, well-concealed under the shadow of night, smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> If I have caused offense, think this but a dream.


End file.
